One More About You
When you get nervous, your body reacts. Blood will gather in your chest, around vital organs, instead of your extremities. Your body will also release adrenaline for about four or five minutes. Your heart will beat faster. You may even breath in some irregular manner. As a result of these reactions, your arms and legs can feel cold and kind of tingly. These sensations are signals of your body getting ready for a fight-or-flight response. Performers have a close relationship with these sensations. I feel it a lot. I might say that the defining moments of my life, or more accurately those that present the most opportunity, involve that cold and tingly feeling. Our body, being designed for motion, is ready for action, although in this day and age our crisis may be something less urgent than perceived.
The last time I felt it, I was sitting in the second row of a brand new theater. I picked my seat because it was out of the way of groups that would want to sit together, but mostly because I thought that some of the lights might catch me and you would see that I came to watch your performance. Your dress was black and victorian, as best as I can describe it. It fit with each character you played. I remember your hair too. It was pulled back tight over top and curly in the back. Was it more red than usual? Your character was frustrated. The letters said nothing informative or substantial, and you wanted more. "Palms and pelicans," I think you said, referring to the content of your last letter.
Look at me! Look at me!
The next time I felt it, your character didn't speak, and your dress was partially covered by a white apron. You were more playful this time. You listened with intent to a monologue a fellow cast member gave about gypsies and the coin you used to call your star.
Why can't you see me? You look everyone in the eye but me!
That feeling starts to fade, as it does with time. Now you wear a white gown. You are so angry. They have locked you away, and you learn to behave and build your anger silently inside. Funny, I've learned the same thing. You rant atop the stairs in the darkness to what you believe is yourself. It isn't written in the script that an audience is watching.
You must see me here! Don't any of those characters of your have anything to say to me?
No feeling for another hour. The black dress is back. Your characters grow more mature and complicated. A model, a secret lover, and more I don't remember. Why should I? They're all still you, excellent and captivating to me. After the applause you reveal yourself. This time in a white shirt and khaki skirt, same hair. Good choice. Someone on the other side of the theater presents a question to a man sitting directly behind me. It's enough to make you turn and look.
You see me now! I've been here the whole time!
That cold and tingly feeling is back in full force now. I wait for you to finish the congratulations and goodbyes with your family. "I'll talk to you soon, but thanks so much for coming," is all you gave me. I didn't get to say a single word, not that I had anything picked out. I don't believe that my mouth and brain were working in conjunction anyway. I make some noise, hang my head, and walk out. Did I get a second look from you? Not likely. All you have for me is palms and pelicans.
The last time I felt it, I was sitting in the second row of a brand new theater. I picked my seat because it was out of the way of groups that would want to sit together, but mostly because I thought that some of the lights might catch me and you would see that I came to watch your performance. Your dress was black and victorian, as best as I can describe it. It fit with each character you played. I remember your hair too. It was pulled back tight over top and curly in the back. Was it more red than usual? Your character was frustrated. The letters said nothing informative or substantial, and you wanted more. "Palms and pelicans," I think you said, referring to the content of your last letter.
Look at me! Look at me!
The next time I felt it, your character didn't speak, and your dress was partially covered by a white apron. You were more playful this time. You listened with intent to a monologue a fellow cast member gave about gypsies and the coin you used to call your star.
Why can't you see me? You look everyone in the eye but me!
That feeling starts to fade, as it does with time. Now you wear a white gown. You are so angry. They have locked you away, and you learn to behave and build your anger silently inside. Funny, I've learned the same thing. You rant atop the stairs in the darkness to what you believe is yourself. It isn't written in the script that an audience is watching.
You must see me here! Don't any of those characters of your have anything to say to me?
No feeling for another hour. The black dress is back. Your characters grow more mature and complicated. A model, a secret lover, and more I don't remember. Why should I? They're all still you, excellent and captivating to me. After the applause you reveal yourself. This time in a white shirt and khaki skirt, same hair. Good choice. Someone on the other side of the theater presents a question to a man sitting directly behind me. It's enough to make you turn and look.
You see me now! I've been here the whole time!
That cold and tingly feeling is back in full force now. I wait for you to finish the congratulations and goodbyes with your family. "I'll talk to you soon, but thanks so much for coming," is all you gave me. I didn't get to say a single word, not that I had anything picked out. I don't believe that my mouth and brain were working in conjunction anyway. I make some noise, hang my head, and walk out. Did I get a second look from you? Not likely. All you have for me is palms and pelicans.